In the Essay All My Heroes Kill Themselves – the title loosely referencing the album title All my Heroes are Cornballs by JPEGMafia – Gianfranceschi attempts to trace the history and legacy of artists and creative that have, unfortunately, died by their own hand. With examples based on the work of the likes of David Foster Wallace, Mike Kelley, Kurt Cobain, Mark Rothko, Gilles Deleuze and many more, the essay tries to get a sense of how mental illness in the arts is treated as both the fuel of the fire and the fire itself. Why is it that these highly creative people succumb to a thing that, for all intents and purposes, is ephemeral and, unlike the work itself, not graspable? Why is it that they could not fight it? The essay does not emphasise chronology or historical accuracy, but rather attempts to subjectively assess the extent to which a theme such as depression was present in these individuals‘ works. Furthermore, the question arises: is the work the only thing that is left, as a trace of a life lived, or should the discourse on depression and mental illness in their work be as equally important as what they leave behind?
It goes without saying, but: the following contains mentions of suicide.
If you, or anyone you know, is suffering, please consider reaching out to the designated suicide prevention hotline of your given country.
Pain leaves a rotten odor; you may smell it for weeks.
Vincent Van Gogh, supposedly, shot himself in a (lovely) field, as to avoid the pain of existence. Mark Rothko slit his wrists in his New York studio in 1970 having, probably and most likely, been subjected to manic-depression. David Foster Wallace hung himself in his apartment while his then wife Karen Green was out for groceries (this may sound, to some, as if I were blaming Green for going to the supermarket but I want to clarify that I am surely not). The beloved chef and TV-Show host Anthony Bourdain hung himself in a hotel room in 2018. David Berman of Silver Jews-fame and the newly grouped Purple Mountains chose to end his life in 2019. The Chinese novelist and film-director Hu Bo was found dead in 2017 after conflicts with his producer-team. Apparent suicide. Chester Bennington and Chris Cornell both decided to end their life in 2017, after a long and well-documented struggle with depression and addiction. Ian Curtis had been suffering from the after-effects of a declining mental health and repeated seizures that he decided, in 1980, to commit suicide. The popular rapper 6 Dogs killed himself in 2021, at 21 years of age. Mr. Always Smiling aka. Robin Williams decided, in 2014, to not continue on living. Elliott Smith, apparently and supposedly, killed himself in 2003. Nick Drake committed suicide in 1974, long before his actual career could ever take off. Keith Flint, The Firestarter, killed himself in 2019. Alexander McQueen, fashions Enfant Terrible, killed himself in 2010.
Before starting this rather dubious inquisition, it should be noted that the author does not pretend to know what on God’s green earth is/was truly going on in the minds of anybody else and everything here is pure speculation, except for what ends up being facts. This supposition of a thought-experiment is merely based on a particular shared-sensibility between those names mentioned that, on the surface, might have nothing in common except the unfortunate fact that they all, eventually, killed themselves at some point. This is also not a glorification of suicide, for that would certainly be in poor taste and not how real suicide looks like. Real suicide, speaking from someone who is currently not dead, seems to be exasperatingly lonely and profoundly decisive; romanticism has absolutely nothing on the actuality of the events, of a life that suddenly stops. In fact, suicide – often a result of a poor mental health – is the sharp end of a blade that trick you into thinking it is your only real friend, when, in reality, it suddenly becomes your biggest enemy. The question at hand is thus: how are such creative individuals, ranging from the likes of Mike Kelley, David Foster Wallace, Mark Rothko, Sylvia Plath etc. doomed by, presumably, the same cavity in the same brain that produces some of their best ideas? How are they not capable of talking themselves out of it and what does the deep end of depression truly look like?
If we start in chronological order, it could be arguable that Mike Kelley’s suicide shocked the art world because of how much it contrasts the nature of his work: often very colorful, bright, bordering on the scrummy but never without depth and meaning. Kelley was always outspoken about topics like abuse and mental anguish, often centering on topics like the repression of memories, childlike wonder etc. Kelley often talked about himself as having to have been abused, never shying away from an uncomfortable conversation, whichever form it might’ve taken. Rob Storr argues that Kelley became very disillusioned by the artworld and began loathing its mechanisms which, for someone who always felt more belonging in a punk-rock show than a white-cube, should come as no surprise. It is also rumored that Kelley was in debt when he chose to end his life, but this essay would like to not indulge in such frivolous activities. It seems that, by end of his life, there must’ve been a metaphorical voice in Kelley’s head going “to kill yourself is easier than having to deal with the artworld”, which really is never the case. So why succumb to such thinking? From a fellow (assumed) self-killer, Kurt Cobain, comes the saying “I miss the comfort in being sad” (in Frances Farmer Will Have Her Revenge On Seattle), which is a really dumbed-down way of actually saying a very profound thing: sometimes, a familiar sadness is a much higher high than an unfamiliar embrace of unknown circumstances (which might also be positive in nature). This is certainly viable, but the lyric seems to allude to the romanticizing of sadness as an aphrodisiac for the mind, which really is not the case. In most cases of acute, clinical depression, the sufferee is in the chokehold of the depression, but never under its spell, as if it was a thing one can opt out of at any given time. Thus, if we choose to believe that depression is, indeed, a sickness, how is it that powerful? How is it that being sad is, at times, easier than being happy, whatever happiness even means.
A similar fate was bestowed upon fellow abstract expressionist Mark Rothko. Many would like to associate his later work, characterized by many blacks and greys, as being a reflection of his state of mind, but one ought also to remember the mane deep reds and pastel pinks he used towards the end of his life, clearly showing that depression does not have a color, contrary to what many might think. For both Rothko and Kelley, each respective career was flourishing, and opportunities were at an all-time high (which surely also take a toll on someone whose mental state is already frail enough as it is, no doubt). Naturally, the social discussion about depression in 1970 (when Rothko killed himself) and 2012 (when Kelley did) are two drastically different ones, so it must’ve felt even more alienating in Rothko’s time to have to battle one’s own brain, but we must not make distinctions purely based on time, because the disease is still the same. The thing is that, apparently, depression made it seem, to Rothko (serving as a stand-in for all) that death might be a better option than to continue to, in this case, painting, and that just cannot make sense. Incidentally, this is precisely the point that seems to evade the general public about suicide: that it has no clear purpose, no real long-run plan and no direction at all. It also does not make exceptions based on wealth, gender or social status, even if it should be noted that there are differences in how it masks itself (unfortunately, people who identify as transgender commit suicide far more often than average white cisgender men, for example.).
The case of someone like David Foster Wallace is a more nuanced one, just because of how much he actually circumscribed talking about depression in his work (canonically becoming known as the depression author). Wallace underwent multiple attempts at electro-magnetic therapy and was dependent on anti-depressants for most of his life. His suicide could, technically speaking, be tossed up to him going off anti-depressants and, essentially, not handling it well, but that should not really be a surprise to anyone. His condition is also vastly different than that of someone like Gilles Deleuze, who, overwhelmed by his life-long respiratory problems, chose to throw himself out of his apartment’s window. This comparison is only made because both were, essentially, writers, their fate was the same and yet they got there in two very different ways (Wallace having died by hanging himself). Yet, Deleuze’s suicide was a reaction to his physical ailment, while Wallace’s was the conclusion of losing the battle with one’s own mind. Wallace also survived at least two more suicide attempts throughout his lifetime. So, how is it that the same brain that produced indelible literature classics also had the power to take the same life it birthed? It is very well known that the relationship between creativity and depression is a rather strong one, but it is also true that during intense periods of prolonged depression, the artist – in the general sense – is not capable of producing their best work because the sickness does not compel creativity but denies it. Actually, one could make the argument that the world at large is simply full of people that, today, chose to not kill themselves and continue on living because other things compelled them to and were more enticing than the prospect of a quick death. Yet, it always seems strange that there is no instance whatsoever that was able to talk Wallace (or any other unfortunate suicidee) out of ending their life, especially given that people like Wallace, Deleuze, Kelley etc. surely were very much fond of discussing things at large to reach a certain conclusion. It is almost as if the depression becomes the only interlocutor speaking any sense, when, in reality, the depression itself is the biggest trickster of all. Yet, it masks itself so well that it seems to, even if only for a moment, make more sense than any actual sense. In fact, all these instances are not, as Mark Fisher – another unfortunate prodigal lost to their own brain fallacy – would certainly agree with, insulated, individual problems, but only causalities in a looming haze of international mental anguish that just does not seem to go away. On a theological level, the more inquisitive ones would, eventually, be quick to question a God that lets us roam free in our own despair, because that is exactly the point: just as we are, essentially, free-willed in that we, differing from animals, are able to articulate our choices, we are almost completely free in our own suffering. Someone like Wallace, hanging himself while his unfortunate wife was out of the house, was only able to actually go through with his suicide because he was, like any other suicidee, supposedly and completely free in doing so. Now, to instigate a detention center that would physically prevent any suicide, would not only be moronic but bordering on the dictatorial, but, if we really think about it, suicide itself becomes dictatorial in the moment that life exits the limbs of the person preoccupied with dying.
It remains a mystery how Chester Bennington, known for singing about his pains for more than a decade, was able to die by suicide and everyone be surprised and stunned by it, but he was able to because there is no entity that understands depression as a collective hurt and not as a purely individual one that is so encoded, it cannot be understood by anybody (which is always, always a lie). It continues to be baffling how depression quickly becomes illogical, if we take logic to belong to the living, especially because the correlation between creativity, certainly illogical in that it has no intrinsic value other than, firstly, for the maker, and depression occupying the same brain. The equations between retaining said creativity, especially for highly creative people, versus losing it to suicide should be a very quick draw, but it seldomly really is. So how can something that determines many lives be so senseless, is we deem the real world to make sense (even if only in a very chaotic and entropic way)?
Jim Carrey – the first mention that, thankfully, is still alive and hopefully well – once described depression as a “deep rest”, something the body (of the depressed person) needs to continue on living. It is arguable whether this makes any kind of sense or not, because the spirit is certainly not rested when in a depressive state. But what it certainly is a rest from is the shackles of modernity, the constant need for productivity, progress, products and payment, even if an involuntary one.
The real challenge should be to stay sane, and not in the Artaud “What does sanity even mean” way but in the I’m-not-going-to-jump-off-the-roof kind of way, to be perfectly clear. In fact, depression, even if prolonged, is never permanent, but suicide itself is a permanent solution to temporary problems. Anyone with a brain can agree to this very statement, but that doesn’t inherently mean that those engaging in any kind of suicidal ideation will be able to see it for themselves; to not believe the lie that is dragging them under. Perhaps so, depression itself is the most illogical of catastrophes known to human being’s minds, for, as we have colorfully illustrated above, it can most certainly be without rhyme or reason to do so, which is exactly why it so often wins over the presumption of logic of the real world: the so called comfort in being sad – whatever that might mean – is often mistaken for the comfort in the feeling itself, but it should be noted that this presumed comfort is actually just the certainty of an emotion that through physicality becomes tangible, whereas normally, in modern life, our feelings and emotions don’t really dictate much of anything except our moods. It is completely logical that one would engage with such illogical thinking in a world that denies any kind of thinking, for that very thinking suddenly becomes real, not through the things we do for it but for the things it commands us not to do – to not go out, to recluse oneself, to minimize any kind of stimuli and so forth – in order to blossom. In this sense, what Carrey might be referring to certainly has some validity, in the sense that the depressed state becomes one that is the case, finite and valid because, for those suffering from it, it simply is and needs to be addressed. The rest – or reclusion, depending on who you ask, thus becomes more vital than any kind of activity.
There are a trillion reasons why anyone, in today’s day and age, might be depressed (it is important to differentiate between the colloquial using of the term and the clinical condition, thus the italics), and presumably good ones as well. A mountain, in contrast to depression, is still a massive, arduous feat, but it is a visible one. Depression is the silent killer, one that is still treated with great amounts of shame and distrust, but one that is equally as deadly as other diseases. The term Club 27 is a globally recognized phenomenon that we have, all, somehow agreed upon being more of an interesting lure than something to be concerned about. So how is it, almost always, too late? How the fuck does someone who, like Foster Wallace, wrote manuscripts by hand – which for a book of over one thousand pages is almost psychotic – just go ahead and off themselves or, more accurately: how does the same brain that makes those wonderfully creative decisions make the choice of not wishing there to be more of them? Tom Sachs’s saying of “Creativity is the enemy” surely has some validity here, but creativity ought to be the one place that might reign over depression. In fact, in the most depressed of states, the artist (at large) will never be able to work, which means that when work is in bloom, depression cannot coexist. These are the moments which must be remembered, no matter how powerful the grip of psychic pain is. Moreover, the artist mentioned must not be remembered for their eventual suicide, but for the work, that outlived them, for the ideas they filled the world with – ideas that were surely intertwined with their own experiences with depression, but never capitalized on any kind of romanticized notion of that very dread – which must stand as a testament for their fight against depression and not as fragments of it whispering into their ears. In the work of those mentioned – and everybody else that chose to not continue on living – we find traces of these very people; it’s not necessarily their bodies that live on, but rather their ideas. At least ever since conceptual art we have, collectively, agreed upon that the idea itself can be the art, so, perhaps, ideas themselves are equally as valuable, equally as descriptive of a life?
In memory of: Vincent Van Gogh, Mark Rothko, David Foster Wallace, Anthony Bourdain, David Berman, Hu Bo, Ian Curtis, 6 Dogs, Robin Williams, Elliott Smith, Nick Drake, Keith Flint, Alexander McQueen, Sylvia Plath, Sarah Kane, Mike Kelley, Édouard Levé, Gherasim Luca, Paul Celan, Sadaharu Horio, Chester Bennington, Chris Cornell, Kurt Cobain, Gilles Deleuze, Ernest Hemingway, Mark Fisher, Diane Arbus, Nicolas De Staël, Chantal Akerman, Günther Fruhtrunk, Arshile Gorky, Walter Benjamin, Virginia Woolf, and all other people, famous and non, that died by their own hands.
Biography
DANIEL GIANFRANCESCHI (*1999) is a multidisciplinary artist and writer working within the realms of painting, text and sound. Gianfranceschi previously studied fashion management under Prof. Sabine Resch & Prof. Markus Mattes and is now continuing his studies in painting and sound at the Academy of Fine Arts in Munich under Prof. Florian Pumhösl & Prof. Florian Hecker. His work has been shown at Kunstpavillon München, Goethe-Institut Athens, Künstlerhaus Stuttgart, Württembergischer Kunstverein Stuttgart and, most recently, Museum Brandhorst, among others. Writing contributions have been featured in Erratum Press, Cutt Press, Virgo Venus Press, Sleeve Magazine, Positionen Magazin, Frameless Magazin and more. His musical output has been performed at various institutions and featured in compilations by the likes of Industrial Coast, Les Horribles Travailleurs and more.